


Add Six

by DeskGirl



Category: Generator Rex
Genre: Blood, Broken Bones, Broken nose, Fighting, Gen, Homelessness, Not Canon Compliant, Origin Story, Theft, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 09:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeskGirl/pseuds/DeskGirl
Summary: Survivors make the best fighters, and One only takes the best. When a boy in a worn green shirt manages to pick his pocket, he's amused, but when the boy finds him again later to return it, that's when he's impressed. Oh but then. Then he sees him fight.(A speculative origin story for Agent Six.)





	Add Six

    It was rare that One needed to leave his home for anything. The island he had made his training grounds was self-sufficient and off the radar. The quiet was no problem, either. Certainly, it was more pleasant there now that Two—or Dos as he preferred to call himself—was sufficiently trained and beginning to work in the field. He had a job in two weeks that One intended to drop in on, just to test the young man. He hoped his student survived until then. In the meantime, though, visiting the mainland had become necessary because Dos had left behind quite a bit of damage that needed repair. Perhaps One had been excessive in his final test, but it would have been disgraceful to have an apprentice of his die during their first assigned mission.  
  
    He’d chosen a bay community of no real importance, neither too large nor too small so that he would not be recognized. One liked his privacy. He may be tempted to visit this place again, though. The narrow, cobbled streets and vendors selling out by the docks made for an excellent environment; No shops needed to be entered, goods could be purchased using cash without question, and large-numbered ambushes were nearly impossible in this area.   
  
    No sooner had the analysis been made than a large number of boys and girls ran through the market area, screaming and laughing. The vendors shouted at them to stay out of the way. They slapped away sneaky little hands and waved in anger as the crowd passed. One stepped to the side and watched with some amusement. He remembered his newest student IV being like these little miscreants. He’d spotted him that day because despite the boy’s poor health, he’d utilized every shortcut and small space he could find to avoid being caught, managing to outrun two cops patrolling on foot. Cleverness was a rare commodity.   
  
    The lightest of touches—like a feather—did not escape One’s attention. It was the teen with the green and white striped tank top. A fast one, like IV: he’d managed to brush past One and cross to the opposite side of the street without making a ripple in the crowd of street urchins that were fleeing the scene.   
  
    “Sir? Are you all right?” Someone was talking to him. One turned to the vendor whose wares he’d been examining.   
  
    “What was that all about?”  
  
    “Just the local kids. I wish someone would deal with it. The homeless kids teach the others bad habits like stealing and smoking. I catch them behind the local packing factory all the time.”  
  
    “Hm.” One casually slipped his hand into his pocket and felt around. “Well, heheh, it seems I’ll have to come back later to buy what I need. I can’t find my wallet.”   
  
    “Those kids! I’ll get the police.”  
  
    “No need. It wasn’t much. I imagine whoever took it needed it more than I do. Have a good day.”  
  
    One disliked the thought of wasting extra days sailing back to the island just for more spending money. Perhaps he could find some gentlemen willing to “donate” a little cash. One smiled at the thought. He hadn’t roughed up an amateur in quite a few months. Not since those mercenaries in Rio De Janeiro.   
  
    The click of loose stones on the cobbled ground gave One forewarning. He reached behind himself and caught hold of a thin wrist that struggled to pull away. Looking over his shoulder, he found it was his pickpocket.   
  
    The boy—too young to be any sort of man, surely—was dirty up to mid-calf from running around, but the rest of him was noticeably clean. His tank top was wearing at the edges and a size too large, and despite the heat he chose to wear sturdy boots, a size too large as well, with extra socks. Sandals made it difficult to run, One supposed. The boy’s arm twisted back and forth in One’s hand, testing his grip, but he didn’t look panicked. In fact, he didn’t show any emotion at all, staring straight back up at the man with unwavering brown eyes. They were old eyes.   
  
    “Did you want something?” One asked pleasantly enough.  
  
    “You dropped your wallet,” the teen said, holding it up in the other hand.   
  
    “Did I?”  
  
    The boy’s gaze dropped for an instant before looking back up. “No. I took it.”  
  
    “Then why bring it back? Take all the money out already?”  
  
    “No. I just don’t want it.”  
  
    This might be interesting. “Why take it in the first place, then?”  
  
    “One of the others told me to.”  
  
    “Which one?”  
  
    The boy remained silent, one eyebrow rising like the curve of a question mark. It made One want to laugh. Such a mature expression didn’t fit a child like this, thin and pale with two layers of socks on.   
  
    “All right, so don’t tell me. But he’s going to get back at you for returning my money.”  
  
    “Most likely. But I decided I don’t care. Do you want your wallet back or not?” The teen waved it to redirect One’s attention.   
  
    “Yes, please. And since I can afford it now, I think I’m going to have some tea. Do you know a place?”  
  
    Again that raised brow. The boy handed the wallet over. “Up this street, take a right, and it’s two stores down. Open street café.”  
  
    One returned the wallet to his pocket. “Maybe you’d like to have some tea with me.”  
  
    “I drink coffee. And no thank you.”  
  
    “So mature for your age.”  
  
    “I’m fifteen,” the teen deadpanned.  
  
    One laughed. His own guess had been incredibly off. Malnourishment and thrift shop clothes made such a difference. “My apologies. Good luck with that other boy. Remember to keep your guard up, and don’t swing for the face or you’ll ruin your hands.”  
  
    “I already know that,” the boy said, looking away. “I need to go.” Once his arm was released, the teen pulled it back to his side and headed back the way he’d come as if nothing had happened.   
  
    One checked his wallet to see if his money was indeed there. As nice as it was to get his wallet back, One didn’t trust people. Especially charitable people. Not that there weren’t genuinely charitable people, but they existed in some naïve place separate from One’s world.   
  
    Everything was still there. “I would have at least taken a five,” One commented before tucking the wallet away again. He was ready for that tea.  
  
    The day was spent tracking down the rest of those supplies One needed. Walls and roofing needed to be repaired, and One’s reading table was firewood now. Finding materials to replace his trapping nets hadn’t been so difficult in a fishing community like this, but it was a little trickier finding ingredients for smoke bombs in sufficient quantities. The gardening shop he stumbled upon as evening approached did the job. One had to assure the woman inside several times that, yes, he did want to purchase the entire industrial-sized bag of saltpeter, and no, he didn’t need help carrying it out. She didn’t seem sure until he lifted it up onto his shoulder effortlessly and headed out the door with a pleasant goodbye.   
  
    The sea breeze that had blown in during the day had ceased, and One could only hope a land breeze would not develop and stir up storm weather out on the ocean; he’d taken the small boat for this trip. Without people around or even a good wind whistling through the buildings, the high-walled streets echoed with every little noise, from the slap of One’s sandals to the creak of wooden shutters three blocks down.   
  
    One also picked up on the sound of a crack and a sharp cry around the corner. Too high-pitched to be a man. Not a woman either. Shouting and scuffling followed. One knew he could easily detour down a side street and head back to his boat, but why miss out on the fun? So instead he followed the noises.   
  
    It was an empty dirt circle with a paved stone in the center. The stone had likely been a well at some point, but the town had filled it in. A crowd of boys and girls milled around, some shouting and others hushing them in order to avoid drawing the attention of people living in the nearby buildings. They gave the two teenage boys in the center of the square a wide berth. Blood—almost black in the evening moonlight—spackled the ground and the face of the older boy. It dripped from his chin and stained his teeth as he bared them in a grimace at his smaller opponent: One’s pickpocket.   
  
    While the children watching tossed insults and suggestions, the two boys stayed quiet. The larger breathed heavily, blood bubbling from his busted nose while the younger boy in the green stripes held his distance, fists up and blood coating the knuckles of his left fist. One observed from the side street, admiring the little play being presented. He needed no introduction. Clearly the older boy had demanded his money and threatened the younger teen. The teen had refused. Maybe he hadn’t said anything at all. One had seen it in his face that he was tired of being powerless; perhaps he had taken the initiative. Either way he’d clearly gone for a quick jab, using his front hand and taking his opponent by surprise. He had no clear training, but he held his hands up in something of a decent guard, like a boxer. No, closer to Taekwondo. It was doubtful the boy knew one from the other, but he had a sense of effective form.   
  
    The bloody teen lunged, and the smaller boy tried to dodge, but One knew he couldn’t; he had too much weight on his front foot. The scrawny teen surprised One, though. Instead of a spectacular flailing of arms as the pickpocket realized he was on the wrong foot, he instead leaned back and wrapped himself around his attacker’s arm, then twisted. He still fell over, but landed mostly on the other boy who went down hard in the dirt. Quick like a snake the boy was on top of his bully, weight on his chest to try and keep him down. He threw punches a little too wildly, but One noted with some small amount of pleasure that he kept his blows to the neck and chest, avoiding the larger boy’s thick skull and jaw. He had listened.   
  
    It was unfortunate he was so small. A quick blow to the side of the head and a good push, and he’d been thrown off. He flew back and narrowly avoided cracking his head on the paved stone in the middle of the clearing. It was at this moment the absolute quietness of the crowd struck One. Perhaps it had finally dawned on them all that one of these boys would not be walking away; this was a man’s fight.   
  
    The bully gasped and snarled loudly, blood and spit spraying about as he threw himself on top of his target. The boy on the ground managed to throw his arms up to protect his face, but there was no substance to the thin limbs. They couldn’t hold back the heavy blows the other boy rained down with a fury. The teen in the striped shirt grunted and hissed as he struggled to slip out from under his opponent, refusing to go down even as his lip split, his head hit the ground repeatedly, and his nose finally broke.   
  
    That was enough of that. One pushed through the crowd, children scattering in a panic at an adult discovering their clandestine fist fight. Bag still over his shoulder, One reached down and grabbed the larger boy by the back of his shirt, throwing him aside. Unprepared, he went tumbling in a heap.   
  
    “You stay out of this!” the boy roared, picking himself up and charging. One waited until he was in range before striking. It was quick. Fingers curling into a curved hand neck strike position, he jabbed at the boy’s throat, shoving his thumb and pointer finger into his neck. He hit the dirt with a choked sound and stopped moving. The neck was a fantastic target zone despite the small area—so many nerves and arteries in a place where muscle couldn’t be built up.  
  
    Turning on his heel, One found his little friend still on the ground. He was trying to pick himself up, but was apparently too dizzy to get any further than his knees. His face was a mess, and there was a glow in those eyes that One had not seen the last time they met.   
  
    The boy in green felt at his nose, a hiss escaping as he found it crooked and bruised. He blew as hard as he could despite the pain, blood pouring out and ruining his shirt. He gave a final sniff before standing—and promptly tipped forward.   
  
    One shot out a hand to catch him. “He did a number on you. I’d say you were about even, though. Not bad considering he must have twenty pounds on you.”  
  
    “I was almost free. I would have won,” the teen said. One wasn’t so sure of that, but he could tell the kid would have kept trying until he was knocked out or killed.  
  
    “I know. But if I let you finish your fight, you’d be too injured to walk me down to my boat.”  
  
    “What?”  
  
    One smiled. “The streets can be dangerous at night, don’t you agree? I thought that I should have someone walk with me down to the docks.”  
  
    The boy gave him a flat, calculating look. His gaze slid over to the boy he’d been fighting with, who still hadn’t moved.  
  
    “He’s not dead.”  
  
    “I didn’t ask.” Dismissing the unconscious teen, the boy started walking. “If we cut through this way, we’ll avoid the pubs and busy streets. If anyone sees me covered in blood, they might get the police.”  
  
    Discretion. Now there was something One’s student Trey could stand to learn. One fell into step behind the boy. “I have to say, that was a good fight. I could tell you have experience. Did you learn from anyone?”  
  
    “Not really. I just pick things up.”  
  
    “How long have you been picking things up?” One asked. They both knew the question meant something else entirely.  
  
    “Five years or so,” the teen admitted.   
  
    “Not bad. Not bad at all.” Five years on his own without getting caught by social services or the cops, and he’d established himself in an area he could learn intimately. “For future reference,” One said, “it’s more effective to target your opponent’s limbs. When you got him on the ground, he wasn’t incapacitated, and his arms were free. Now if you had gotten hold of his arm and broken it, you would have had that fight.”  
  
    “You’re encouraging me to break limbs?”  
  
    “I’m encouraging you to finish the fights you start and make sure you’re the one who wins.”  
  
    The boy glanced back—just a quick look out of the corner of his eye.   
  
    The rest of the walk was silent. The only living thing to cross their path was a stray dog that the teen chased away with a few sharp words. Most people were headed to bed. One couple was making love in a second story apartment with the windows open because it was too hot to shut them. The docks were empty as well, boats tied up, vendor booths stowed away, and nets hanging on racks by weather-worn equipment sheds.   
  
    “Which one is yours?” the teen asked.  
  
    “I’m over here.” One stepped up to a sturdy looking little sailboat with dark blue trim and no distinguishing markings. “Stay put. I have something to discuss with you,” One said before he carried the saltpeter bag on board. He came out to find the boy tenderly touching at his nose. “Never had your nose broken before?”  
  
    “No. Never broken.”  
  
    “I’ll help you with that. It’s an occupational hazard for me.” One pulled the boy’s hands away. “Blow out hard.” The boy did as instructed, more blood and mucus coming out. Some of it hit One’s shirt and pants, but if that was the worst these clothes saw, he didn’t mind. He knew how to remove blood stains from just about anything.   
  
    One made a triangle with his fingers, then placed them at the top of the boy’s nose. “This is going to hurt; don’t pass out. Now slowly breathe out through your mouth,” he instructed. The boy took a deep breath, and as he breathed out, One closed his hands around the nose and slowly dragged them down to the boy’s messy chin. The teen let out a pained, nasal sound, and One didn’t blame him since this was his first break. One held onto his shoulders in case he got dizzy or passed out. He tilted his head and examined his work by the faint evening light.   
  
    “Congratulations: straight on the first try. I won’t have to do it again.”  
  
    “You—ah—said this was an occupational hazard,” the boy said slowly, blinking away tears. “What is it you do?”  
  
    “Let me answer that with a question. Why did you pick a fight with that boy? You knew you were at a disadvantage.”  
  
    “It was better than the alternative.”  
  
    “What do you mean?”  
  
    The boy tried to breathe in through his nose and winced, then tried again through his mouth. “I mean my options were to fight him and lose, or let him walk all over me. I’d rather make him fight for it.” One chuckled. “Why are you laughing?” the boy asked.  
  
    One commended the boy on keeping an even tone rather than becoming indignant. He had good control. “I just admire survivors. Good losers are better than bad winners because they can improve. How would you like that?”  
  
    “Like what?”  
  
    “To improve. I could train you. If you became my student, you would never be powerless again. You’d get to live life on your terms. That is, with the exception of listening to everything your teacher says without question.”  
  
    The boy stared up at him for a drawn out moment before his eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you teach?”  
  
    “How to kill people,” One said. He smiled at the boy’s expression. “You thought I’d lie about it? I take pride in what I do; I am the most dangerous man on the planet.” His grip on the boy’s shoulders were firm in case he had misjudged him, and the boy tried to run.   
  
    “Why teach me then?”   
  
    “I told you: I admire survivors.”  
  
    “I don’t know anything about you.”  
  
    “I just told you everything you need to know. I told you that I’m strong, and I’m invested in your future. No one else is going to make you strong. You’d have to pick it up yourself like everything else you’ve learned, and that’ll only get you so far.”  
  
    “You don’t know anything about me,” the boy argued. There was no tenseness in his shoulders, though. One felt him relaxing. He had made the right choice; this one wanted to be strong. He hadn’t been in control of his own life for a long time.  
  
    “I don’t want to know anything about you. What matters is your potential. I can’t teach spirit; that’s something you have to have.”  
  
    “You don’t even know my name.”  
  
    “If you come with me, you won’t have one anymore. You leave behind everything on this dock: your name, your past, and all your weakness. The smallest weight will sink you if you try to carry it past this point. Do you understand?”   
  
    One waited for the boy to answer, but he remained quiet. Perhaps that was too much to ask. His other students had either sought him out or had nowhere else to turn, but maybe this time—  
  
    The teen reached into his pockets and started to empty them there on the dock, one item at a time. A piece of folded paper with smudged writing, a bent paperclip, a blue and red woven bracelet, a couple coins, a carnival ticket, a square of cloth, and a travel sized spool of thread scattered across the wood planks. A red ball hit the dock and bounced into the water, spinning in the current before vanishing underneath their feet.  
  
    “That’s everything,” the boy said, voice subdued. “I’m no one now. I’ll be whatever you teach me.”  
  
    “Then I’ll teach you to be strong. And when you’re ready, you’ll get a new name. Now let’s see about getting into open waters before the tide’s against us.”


End file.
